SOMEHOW . . . I DON’T THINK THIS POEM WILL EVER BE PUBLISHED . . . SO . . . SCREW IT.

Standard

The Corpse

around a riparian corner,

peppered

with generational bullet holes,

a Model-A,

senile red,

in tall grass.

a bear shat in it the other day.

and there’s this REI ouija board fantasy

where bearded ghosts

brag about their whiskey-soaked,

bird-dog bullshit.

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